


Because of You

by indigo_carter



Series: Supernatural Hurt/Comfort [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, abusive parenting, cursing, john winchester being chewed out by an angry woman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 16:31:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4026937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigo_carter/pseuds/indigo_carter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: @honourableladywinchester Could I request a Dean x Reader fic where John is still alive and the reader sees some of the stuff that he does to Dean and finally snaps and gets up in Johns face about it?</p><p>Character: Dean</p><p>Author: Frankie (spnsmutscribe)</p><p>Reader Gender: Female</p><p>Word Count: 1700+</p><p>Warnings: John being a bit of a prick. Threat. Use of a knife. Lots of swearing. Mention of childhood abuse.</p><p>A/N: This is one of those things that I’ve had circling in my head forever but when I come to writing it down, it just wouldn’t come. And when it did it all came at once. Hopefully, I did it justice for you <3 this is a little AU, but I like it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Because of You

It could have been any ordinary day. But it wasn’t. It was the day which had been scrawled on the calendar in Dean’s careless handwriting for months, the spidery letters getting bolder and bigger in your mind’s eye as the day drew closer. Dad for dinner.

That morning, Dean woke up in a foul mood. He slunk into the garage with a thermos full of coffee and a hip flask full of whiskey, and you let him get on with it. You busied yourself in your tiny house, clearing the surfaces of the day-to-day litter of knick-knacks and pieces of paper, polishing the dining table, and then you got going with preparing the dinner. You had been dreading this day for months. Dean hadn’t introduced you to his father when you got together. He hadn’t called him when you moved in together. But you had, for some reason which now escaped you, you’d begged him to let him know when you got engaged. Dean had held the phone in a death-grip and gone as white as a sheet, muttering a terse, “Yes, sir,” before dropping the phone and storming off to the garage to beat the shit out of the punch bag hanging from the roof.

Before long, you’d completed all the possible prep, vacuumed the entire house, rearranged the pretty decorative statuettes at least a dozen times, and gone upstairs to change into your second-best dress. John Winchester didn’t deserve your best.

Perching yourself on the bottom stair, you waited, feet together, absently admiring the angle created by your high heels. The key scraped in the lock, and Dean stepped in, hot and sweaty and scruffy, and a smile lit your face.

“Come on, baby. Time to get ready.” He grunted at you, pushed past you up the stairs and a minute or two later you heard the shower run. Shaking your head to yourself and brushing off the momentary pain you felt at his dismissal, you wandered into the kitchen, enjoying the quiet and the tip-tap of your shoes on the wooden floor, and checked on the pie baking in the oven. As you moved around your little domain, you thought about what was to come. Dean rarely spoke about his father; at least, he never spoke about him in detail, only in platitudes. He is a good hunter. He… He what? You’d listened at doorways and windowsills and from perches halfway up stairs. You’d sat and you’d listened to Dean talk to Sam about their father, and you hadn’t liked what you’d heard. As if the evidence of Dean’s learned behaviour wasn’t enough, the things he and Sam recalled from their childhood was enough to make your blood boil. John Winchester had better fucking behave himself tonight, or he was going to get the tongue-lashing of his life.

Eventually, Dean came back downstairs, his hair still damp from the shower, the scruff on his jaw gone, in a smart shirt and tie and his (you noticed idly) second-best trousers. Clearly Dean didn’t think his father was worth best clothes, either.

The two of you sat on your small two-seater sofa, your hands intertwined, heads bowed together, enjoying the quiet, when the doorbell rang. Your heart dropped like a stone and you shook yourself free from Dean’s hands, standing and taking the few steps to the front door.

“Hello! You must be…” The man on the doorstep didn’t wait for your welcome, but barged in and sought his son. You stood, perplexed and slighted, and quietly closed the door. “John fucking Winchester.” You finished under your breath, then fixed the smile back on your face and followed him into the living room. “Would anyone like a…?” You didn’t bother to finish your sentence. Dean was standing like a recruit being inspected by his drill sergeant, and it made you want to cry.

“You’re not too big to be taught a lesson.” It was a venomous whisper and it barely reached your ears, but it made your eyes narrow. He had been in your house less than five minutes and he was already making threats against his son. Your blood began to boil, but you attempted to ignore it and diffuse the situation.

“Drinks?” Your voice was too chirpy, too sweet, too loud for the moment, but it felt like panic was about to overwhelm you. Both men turned to face you, John going puce in the face, Dean’s expression one of pure relief. You gestured to the chilled beer on the side. “Help yourself.” You began to regret using proper glasses.

The evening felt like it was going on forever. In between the barbed comments from John that you weren’t enough like Mary, and that Dean wasn’t good enough at…well…anything, apparently, the atmosphere was positively arctic, and by the time dessert rolled around, nobody was hungry. You popped into the kitchen to serve Dean’s favourite pecan pie, but in those few minutes hell erupted in the dining room. Clutching the sharp knife you’d used to cut the pie, you stormed back in, only to see John holding Dean by the throat.

“Stop!” It was the only thing you could think of to say. “Stop! Let go of him!” You were screechy and they certainly weren’t the most authoritative words you could have chosen, but they were enough to get John’s grip to loosen, and Dean wriggled free, his tie hanging loose and a rapidly-darkening bruise around his neck. Waving your knife in tight circles, you approached John. “What. The. Fuck. Do you think you’re doing? Coming into our house and treating us like this?” You stopped, the tip of the knife resting gently on the front of his shirt. “You are our guest.” You stopped again, and swallowed hard. “He is your son.” It emerged as a hiss as venomous as his had been earlier in the evening. “He is your son and you always let him down.” Giving the knife a gentle push, you encouraged John to sit down. “You don’t deserve a son like him, do you hear me? If you had only taken your self-obsessed head far enough out of your ass, you would have found one of the most loving, intelligent, talented people to walk the earth. He would have done anything for you, and what did you do? You treated a four year old like an adult. You were a piece of shit father, you know that? Don’t even THINK you can talk your way out of this one. You let him down and you didn’t do shit for him. Oh, yay, you left him the smallest amount of money possible to last him days, weeks even, when you went on hunts. Do you actually know how much money it costs to feed a baby and a child? No wonder he had to go out and steal. No wonder he learned too young how to hustle pool. No wonder he ended up with fraudulent cards.” John’s mouth opened and you jabbed the knife again. “Oh no you fucking don’t, Winchester. You’ve done enough damage over the years. It’s your turn.” His mouth closed again. “You are a little piece of shit. A crappy parent. A worse hunter. Because, your sons wouldn’t have had to find and fucking kill the demon which killed their mother if you’d been able to do it, would they? You’re a fucking piece of work. You know what? I don’t care what you think of me. I don’t care that you wish I was more like Mary. I’m not Mary. I never will be Mary. But the moment you start getting on your boys, you’re disrespecting her. You’re treating a piece of her like it’s nothing to you. Maybe you loved them. But didn’t you do a fine job of making them feel like they were worthless? You raised two boys with no self-esteem, no faith in themselves or anyone else, and fucking LEFT them to fend for themselves when they weren’t old enough to cope. And now, I invite you into my life, into my house, in hopes that you’ll see sense, see the fantastic man your boy has become – without your influence most of the time, may I add – and you know what you did? You came in here and treated him like shit again. Well, this is the last fucking time, Winchester. You are going to get the fuck out of my house and you are never fucking coming back. You’re going, and you’re getting in whatever piece of crap car you have, and you’re never darkening my door again.” With a final jab of your knife, you stepped away from him. Waving your knife threateningly, you escorted him to the door. “Next time, it won’t just be words and the point of a knife.” Throwing his jacket after him, you slammed the door, threw the bolt and did up the safety chain with shaking fingers.

Dropping the knife to the carpet, you turned slowly, eyes seeking Dean.

“Baby?” Your mouth was suddenly dry, and you wondered what the outcome of your outburst would be. Although John Winchester was an abusive parent, both Dean and Sam held him in absurdly high esteem. He was sagging against the wall, his head cradled in one hand, the other tentatively touching his throat. “Baby?” You whispered it, walking slowly towards him and dropping to your knees. His eyes met yours. Hurt and anger filled them, but you were sure if it was directed at you or his father. He wobbled to his feet, his face blank, and pushed past you. You let him go, slumping onto the floor. You took a deep, shaking breath and stood up.

You blindly, mindlessly, did the dishes and headed to bed alone. At some point in the middle of the night, Dean curled into bed behind you, wrapped you in his arms and pressed a kiss to your shoulder, waking you gently from your sleep.

“Baby?” You murmured.

“I’m sorry for walking out on you, babe.”

“It’s ok.” You hummed gently. “I’m sorry I-”

“Don’t be. I didn’t know you knew that much about what he did to Sammy and me when we were growing up. I reckon he had it coming.” He pressed another kiss to your hair and snuggled closer to you. “Thank you.” It was whispered, so quiet you almost missed it. Your heart swelled and you felt tears prick the backs of your eyes. You swallowed hard and wrapped your hands around his forearms where they crossed your chest.

“I love you, Dean.”

“I love you too, Y/N.”


End file.
